


Haunt Hallelujah

by zombiejelly



Category: EXO (Band), IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Cemeteries, Crossover, Dead People, Derry, Friendship, Ghosts, Goth Baekhyun, M/M, Other, Spooky, Terrible Terrible Terrible, This is unfortunately not a joke, This makes no sense but bear with me, graveyards
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-15 09:04:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12317922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombiejelly/pseuds/zombiejelly
Summary: He didn't die gracefully, now that he thinks about it. Not that it matters, death is just death for everyone in the end.





	Haunt Hallelujah

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Marta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marta/gifts).



> this is nothing but a shameful tribute to stephen king and my own spoopy-ass self. if halloween had an ass, my head would sure be the farthest one up there.  
> in all seriousness, this is somewhat of a jibberjabber of the 'it' universe and chanbaek. (that sounds way worse than it actually is.) no clowns were harmed in the making of this fic.

Derry always seemed like the perfect place to grow up in. Picturesque, diner-on-the-corner-and-barber shop-right-by type of town. Dark walnut windows and white picket fences, kids riding rusty old bicycles on leaf-covered streets whilst saying their lollipop-coated ‘hello’s to people passing by.

There was nothing special about Derry, nothing too ordinary, either- it was just a roadstop for some and a small dot on the map of Maine for others.

It was natural for Chanyeol to believe that he would be raised here, perhaps shipped off to university someplace else so one day he can lie that he’d seen the world. Then he’d come back and get a nine-to-five, get married to a girl with golden hair and soon have his own children to raise. He’d be a middle school teacher, he presumed- he’d always had a knack for the written word, his head in a book even as a small child. He’d grade seventh grade assignments with a crease between his eyebrows, dark-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose, fire crackling in the fireplace complementary to the swish of his red pen against the papers.  
November thunder would roar outside with him and his family together in the sitting room, hot cocoa in hand, ‘The Sound of Music’ on TV with chatter filling the void of silent scenes.

He’d grow bald and weak and his wife’s hair would fade to white, her pretty cheeks wrinkled with age. They’d sit on their front porch at amber sunsets with a basket of plums on the table, letting their days go by along with the wind coming down from the Derry Heights.

Their three grandchildren would play in the front yard, scattering autumn leaves with their dirty sneakers. Their eyes would be filled with glee in the orange light, warm brown or Mediterranean blue or dark green like the moss, and they’d be dancing around in dusty cardigans in the evening glow. They’d have lasagna for dinner (because what kid doesn’t like lasagna?) and they’d laugh at the old-fashioned way their grandpa grips his pipe when talking about the 1961 Fourth of July festival.

  
Chanyeol never thought he’d die that day in The Barrens.

Perhaps naivety got to him, thinking he would find his way out of his loneliness as soon as he was old enough to flee. He’d built his life on the hope that the great was only yet to come. Surely, not everyone’s childhood is all ferris wheels and cotton candy, his mother had taught him that as a little boy. Accepting the bad things in life was a part of his identity and he’d never known any different- maybe that’s why everything had turned out the horrid way it did. If he’d been a bit more resilient, a bit more curious to find his happiness rather than silently waiting for it to arrive.

There weren’t many things pleasant about living with his aunt Melody after his mother’s accident. She was a Christian woman in her fifties, chunky and always wearing the same knee-length purple dress, golden crucifix dangling inside the dip of her cleavage. Her dark brown hair had long-lost its shine, eyes glimmering with suspicion at anything Chanyeol would say, or do. She wasn’t a bad person, but as far from kind-hearted as you might suppose, and the only hint of affection he’d ever gotten from her were the pancakes she’d make on the morning of each of his birthdays. They’d never felt or tasted the same as his mother’s, as they were thicker and greasier on the sides, but he’d appreciated them all the same. At least they’d always bought the same brand of fig jelly to eat them with.

His father had died in the war before his mother gave birth to him- he couldn’t say he despaired over it a whole bunch since he’d never felt his presence in the first place. They say he’d been a soft-spoken man with a beard and a beret, hairline and jawline just like Chanyeol’s (from what he’d seen in the photo album, at least). Aunt Melody says he’d inherited his absent-mindedness from him, that Mr. Park had also been an incredibly introverted child. Chanyeol didn’t think of himself that way nor did he believe he’d willingly chosen to be left alone for the most of his time- perhaps a bit shy, only- but being passive when it comes to creating friendships had left him by himself in the end. He could go as far as calling Byun Baekbeom his friend, another Korean boy who he’d pair up with during Science projects. He was very quiet, albeit very smart- kids once threw chestnuts (in the shell, if Chanyeol remembers correctly) at him when he was the only one at school who’d passed a Chemistry exam.  
Baekbeom would often look at him with curious, sparkly eyes whenever Chanyeol would laugh at a joke he would make, or when he’d applaud his efforts at school, as if he was surprised someone had even seen he was there, let alone felt glad to be in his presence. Chanyeol distinctly recalls that to be one of the saddest things he’d seen. A scared boy whose overwhelming intellect was shrouded by the notion that he wasn’t good enough to succeed at anything- even as mere as telling a joke.

That brings us to the chestnuts. Chanyeol had lectured himself countless times for not helping the boy when he’d tried running away on his canary bike, tears hotter than the June sunshine streaming down his chubby cheeks. Tried, because Dave Adley and his goons were never satisfied with just a few bruises. Chanyeol found himself stood there, schoolbag in hand, mouth wide open but no words coming out as they chased after the boy. Baekbeom came to school only a week later, and it was months before he’d looked into anyone’s eyes again. I’m sorry was always on the tip of Chanyeol’s tongue after then, whenever he’d look at the back of Baekbeom’s bowl cut head. Even now, he can feel guilt in his chest when he thinks about it.

Chest? Does he even have a chest? He looks down at his fourteen year old body, lanky in build and clad in gray jeans and a shamrock sweatshirt. His torso is there, he can feel the curve of his ribcage as he places his hand over his breast, but it isn’t what it used to be. It’s colder, firmer to the touch, like you’d imagine touching a stuffed animal would be like. You can tell it used to breathe but it’s far from being alive at this point. Movements are stranger, as well, less natural- rid the human body of its unconscious motions and it’ll start feeling like a puppet. It’s almost like the connection between the brain and the body has become more exclusive, more mechanic, things don’t come naturally anymore and reflexes and instincts have become terribly questionable. Sometimes it seems to Chanyeol that he has to will his legs by force in order for them to carry him places.

He doesn’t levitate. To be fair, it’s the first disappointment he’d faced whilst dead. He doesn’t know if it’s possible, even, but he hopes he’ll learn some day if it is. Actually, most days he doesn’t even walk. He sits on the cobblestone path by his tombstone a lot, letting the rain fall through him to the ground. Days? Months? Years? Time as a concept almost ceases to exist when the biological clock shuts down. There is nothing to measure it with anymore (not even the length of the hair on the top of his head) except if he were to use his memory, which is too complicated and unnecessary for him to waste his thoughts on. He keeps track of seasons, mostly since it’s hard not to, and the only understanding of years’ passed there is for him is the one day of the year Aunt Melody brings flowers to his grave.

She never says anything. She did the first time round, only, when the wound was still fresh for her. He supposes she didn’t love him much but she loved him some, and he did fill a silence in her home he knew she hated. He walked the dog and always offered to wash the dishes- he wasn’t half bad, when he thinks about it. “You were a good boy. No child should die this young,” she said. She didn’t cry, but he didn’t want her to, either.

It has to be ten years, at least. He could’ve counted, but he couldn’t make himself do it since it would only make his understanding of everything’s decay greater. This way he can think of ten minutes as three centuries and the other way around- depending on where his thought process takes him.  
He’s aware that he’s matured since he’d died, regardless of how silly that sounds. It’s as if his body had stopped but his mind hadn’t, and he has had so much time to ponder over every concept ever known to man that it was bound to happen. He sees it as those philosophers in the ancient times who could spend years juggling a certain puzzle of thoughts and pictures inside their heads until the pieces matched perfectly and they’d create something revolutionary. Not that he thinks of himself as ingenious as they were, but the idea of spinning something around your mind so much that it opens up new doors (and windows, and archways, and secret passageways…) which lead to many different conclusions. He’d even dare to say that he’d grown, if that weren’t so dull of him to notice.

Besides, even with all that taken into consideration, he is still just a fourteen year old boy. He doesn’t see his reflection anymore, but he remembers. There is a faint picture of his face in his mind, soft features and blossom lips, cherry-coated as he was always chewing that godawful teeth-rotting gum Aunt Melody had never stopped lecturing him about. Unruly dark hair, darker eyes, big ears that made him avoid Dave Adley’s gang like the plague. Even now, sitting at railing of the Kissing Bridge, he can remember the way they hung him over it and held him by his ears. It was only for a moment before he slipped through their fingers, naturally, but the event gave him nightmares anyway.

It’s how he found The Barrens in the first place, running away. Dirty socks and bloody, scraped knees, he could feel the small shards of rock and leaves prickling inside the wounds on his shins. They were hot on his heels, vulgar and furious. Like rabid dogs they’d chased him through the woods and over the slippery leaves, so angry because he'd always been faster than them but not giving up all the same. They probably wanted to chase him down and do him up real good, give him some scars he’d never be able to erase.

And they did. Not in the manner they’d wanted to, of course- he can imagine Dave’s face was nothing short from disappointed when he’d found him with his head bashed in and a stream of blood pooling browning up the mud by the edge of his ear.

He didn't die gracefully, now that he thinks about it. Not that it matters, death is just death for everyone in the end.

It gets different on a cold November morning. Cold, because the air is more white than transparent, and there’s frost on the edges of the tombstones around him. There's a cat on the stone wall surrounding the graveyard, it glances his way every moment or so with its glassy green eyes.

“Isn’t it cold for you to sit there?”

It takes Chanyeol a moment before he realizes he’s being spoken to. It hasn't happened in so long that it easily could’ve never happened- his sleepy tonsils almost forgot how to juggle sounds around his throat. It's been years since words were on his tongue, and not his head.

“You aren't even wearing a coat. What are you, suicidal?”

It's a boy. Cigarette in hand, probably not older than sixteen. Short black hair and long black coat, a scarf tightly tucked into the neckline. Both lips and face as pale as a pillowcase, eyes narrow and rimmed with kohl close to his eyelashes. It'd be hard to distinguish him from a girl if it weren't for his height and flat chest, there isn’t any masculine roughness to his soft features and round chin.

“You…” Chanyeol’s voice is gritty. Quiet. More disappearing in the air than floating through it. He decides to try again. “I’m not cold.”

Is he? He doesn’t know. _You can see me?_ was what he thought, but didn't say. Perhaps telling someone you're dead isn't the best conversation starter. Especially if they're the only person who’s been able to notice you yet.

The boy shrugs it off. “Your fault if you get pneumonia.”

Chanyeol is suddenly aware of himself again. His posture, his breathing, the way he folds his arms. He doesn't want it to seem as if he's too familiar here.  
Thankfully, the boy’s attention is already elsewhere. He’s looking in the direction of the cat, a silent glee in his eyes.

“Hey, there, little friend,” he motions at it with his free hand. The cat jumps from the wall and stalks closer to him. It rubs its nose against his knuckles, red from the cold and his hand glides down its fur down to its tail.

“You like cats,” is all Chanyeol can say. _Dumb, dumb, dumb_ , his mind retorts to him.

“Yeah. Do you?” He turns to him. There’s a thoughtful smirk on his small lips, a strange playfulness hiding somewhere in the apples of his cheeks. His nose is pink from the cold. “Oh, I’m Baekhyun, by the way. Pleased to meet the only other weirdo who’s skipping school to hang out in the cemetery.”

“Chanyeol,” he says. _I_ _wish that were_ _the_ _case_. “And yeah. I like cats, too.”


End file.
